


Avengers… Assembly

by EachPeachPearPlum



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bad Weather, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Home Improvement, M/M, Rain, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22020937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: Bucky likes his job. He knows going into construction isn't what his parents wanted for him, that they'd had their hearts set on him being the first Barnes to go to college, but he's happy with it. He gets to work in a variety of places, rarely ends up doing the same thing two days in a row, spends a decent amount of time outdoors, and the hard manual labour has the twin bonuses of keeping him in shape and of making his overactive brain go quiet.What he doesn't like is that he’s been working with a new team since Shield Construction bought out Avengers Assembly last month, and they’re either the most absent-minded people ever or just straight-up dicks. Bucky has tried to give them the benefit of the doubt, but this is the third time this job that Brock and Jack have packed up the ladder, ‘accidentally’ trapping Bucky on the roof because they ‘forgot’ he was working up there.(AKA: Bucky gets stuck on the roof in the rain. Good thing Steve’s around to rescue him…)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 16
Kudos: 180
Collections: Stucky Secret Santa 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [procnesflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/procnesflight/gifts).



> Firstly, I’m really sorry this is late, procnesflight. December decided to be even crappier than it usually is this year, and I just wasn’t in the right place to write. There’s a second part, which should be up shortly, but I thought I’d post this now rather than keep you waiting any longer. I’m also sorry for the title, but I hope you’ll forgive me and like the fic anyway…
> 
> Secondly, I owe a debt of gratitude to redsixred, who provided an idea when I had none, and to LavenderJane, who provided a super-speedy beta read for me. Thank you, guys!
> 
> Finally, much gratitude to Rae for stepping up and making sure we all got our gifts. Can’t have been easy for you, so we’re all very glad :)

Bucky likes his job. He knows going into construction isn't what his parents wanted for him, that they'd had their hearts set on him being the first Barnes to go to college, but he's happy with it. He gets to work in a variety of places, rarely ends up doing the same thing two days in a row, spends a decent amount of time outdoors, and the hard manual labour has the twin bonuses of keeping him in shape and of making his overactive brain go quiet.

He likes building things, he's pretty damn good at it, and Bucky chooses to believe that once they got past their initial disappointment his parents are happy that he's happy.

What he doesn't like is that he’s been working with a new team since Shield Construction bought out Avengers Assembly last month, and they’re either the most absent-minded people ever or just straight-up dicks. Bucky has tried to give them the benefit of the doubt, but this is the third time this job that Brock and Jack have packed up the ladder, ‘accidentally’ trapping Bucky on the roof because they ‘forgot’ he was working up there.

The other two times, Bucky’s called to chew them out for their screw up and they’ve come back to rescue him, but so far this afternoon he’s called them five times each and they’ve not answered, nor has anyone picked up the office phone any of the times Bucky’s tried that one.

He’s been fine, if annoyed, for the last hour or so, but it’s maybe half an hour until sunset, the temperature is dropping fairly rapidly, and the clouds that have been building all day seem about ready to burst.

Sure, Bucky likes his job, but he’d really prefer it if he was inside before that happens.

He’s putting serious consideration into calling 911 and suffering the eternal indignity of having to be rescued from a roof by emergency services when two things happen: the first raindrop lands on Bucky’s arm, large and very cold, and a truck’s headlights swing into view, tyres crunching on the rough gravel driveway.

_ Oh thank God_, Bucky thinks, scrambling to his feet and waving both arms in the air, waiting until the truck gets closer before shouting as well.

The truck stops a safe distance from the house, the driver’s door opening and a tall shape getting out. Bucky watches slightly warily as they round the truck, stepping into the glow from the headlights, at which point he relaxes somewhat; over the last couple of weeks, he’s had enough conversations with Steve – the owner of the house they’re currently working on – to know he’s a decent guy, and that’s who is approaching now.

“Hello?” Steve calls, staring up at Bucky. “You okay up there?”

_ Yeah, I just love hanging out on roofs in the rain_, Bucky thinks, though he has more sense than to get all sarcastic at his prospective rescuer. “My asshole colleagues apparently forgot I was up here, because they left, and they took the ladder with them. Don’t suppose you’ve got one lying around here somewhere?”

Between the twilight gloom and what is now a steady downpour, Bucky can’t make out Steve’s expression, though that doesn’t make his prolonged stare any more comfortable.

“No,” Steve says slowly. “DIY isn’t really my strong suit.” He pauses, then takes a step back before turning around. “I’ve got an idea, though,” he tosses over his shoulder, taking quick strides back to the truck and climbing in.

_Could at least have chucked an umbrella up here first_ , Bucky thinks, as Steve sticks the truck in reverse and backs up a way. Again, though, he doesn’t say it, and it’s only a few seconds before the truck is approaching again, this time pulling right up to the house and parallel parking, close enough to the wall that Bucky’s kind of impressed he’s not taken out the wing mirror.

He’s still trying to figure out how this is supposed to help when Steve emerges from the truck again. This time he heads for the back, lowering the tailgate and hopping up onto the truck bed, then clambering up on top of the cab.

“Okay,” he says, “Here’s the plan. You drop, and I’ll catch you.”

Bucky looks down at him, incredulous; it might be a shorter distance to the truck than it is to the ground, but it’s still too far to safely jump, and as well-built as Steve is (it's not that Bucky’s shallow, okay, just that not noticing is absolutely impossible when everything the guy wears seems to be two sizes too small) Bucky isn’t sure he trusts him to catch him.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, apparently hearing all this in Bucky’s very sceptical silence. “Lower yourself down. I promise I’ll catch you.”

It’s a terrible idea, but it’s also the quickest way for Bucky to get off the roof and out of what is now one hell of a rainstorm, so Bucky makes his slow, careful way down the slippery roof tiles to the very edge before sitting down.

Steve’s standing there on the roof of his truck cab, his arms open, and as much as Bucky knows it’s not that kind of invitation it still kinda feels like one.

“Swear to God, if you drop me I’m going to kill you,” Bucky mutters, probably too soft for Steve to hear until the sound of the rain. Still, he stretches out his legs, gripping the edge of the tiles tightly, and feels Steve’s hands close around his ankles, sliding up his calves, the back of his knees; only when he feels Steve’s grip on his thighs, warmth seeping through the soggy material of his jeans, does Bucky force himself to let go of the roof.

He drops quickly, too quickly, certain that they’re both about to end up on the ground, bruised at best, broken bones at worst, and then-

Steve catches him, his hands tight on Bucky’s thighs, and, sure, Bucky knew he was in good shape, but wow.

_Wow_.

Steve’s holding him up like it’s easy, like it’s no effort at all to curve his hands under Bucky’s ass and slowly lower him until they’re face to face, and Bucky’s never been a fan of being manhandled by people he likes, let alone almost-strangers, but apparently his body hasn’t got that memo. He’s not at the point of having an actual _reaction_ to it, but he absolutely did not give his legs permission to wrap around Steve, or his hands to settle on Steve’s shoulders, or his heart to beat at triple time.

No, body, this is 100% not okay.

“Thanks,” Bucky murmurs, the two of them close enough that he doesn’t need to speak any louder than that in order to be heard. It shouldn’t take as much effort to unlock his legs and plant his feet firmly on the truck cab as it did to make himself let go of the roof, but apparently that’s another memo his brain forgot to send; Bucky steps away much more reluctantly than he will ever admit to, stumbling slightly as he does so, and this time Steve’s hands cup his elbows to steady him.

“Careful there, Bucky,” Steve says, though it’s another beat before he releases Bucky, swinging himself down into the truck bed and then offering Bucky a hand to help him down.

Bucky doesn’t intend to accept, but apparently his intentions don’t count for jack today, because next thing he knows they’re both standing on the ground, hands still linked. He’s pretty sure he’s not the only one holding on longer than he has to, but when he gets his thoughts together enough to pull free Steve doesn’t resist. He does, however, put a hand on Bucky’s back to nudge him in the direction of the house.

They’ve only been working outside today, so the house isn’t unlocked, but Bucky stands under the awning over the front door and watches as Steve jogs around the truck and climbs in. The engine coughs for a few seconds, then splutters into life, and Steve pulls the truck away from the wall, parking up properly before killing the lights and the engine and jumping back out again, this time with a large paper bag in his hands.

“Hold this a moment,” he says, thrusting the bag at Bucky so that he can unlock the door and let them inside.

At Steve’s urging, Bucky sheds his sodden jacket and squelching work boots in the hallway, then drips his way after Steve towards the kitchen, depositing the bag of groceries on the table there.

It’s warm, at least in comparison to outdoors, but Bucky’s still shivering. Steve doesn’t seem as affected, but then his coat was probably a lot more waterproof than Bucky’s is; his hair is plastered to his head, the fabric of his too tight t-shirt is damp around the collar, and his jeans are probably getting on for being as waterlogged as Bucky’s are, but he’s still chattering cheerfully about the sudden downpour and the impact it will have on the local area as he puts away his groceries.

“And, of course, the road will be impassable by now,” he says, loading non-perishables into almost empty cupboards before turning back to Bucky. “You’ll have to stay- Shit, Bucky, you must be freezing, why didn’t you say something? Hang on, I’ll get you some dry clothes. Do you want a shower first?”

Bucky’s going to blame the hours spent on a cold rooftop for how long it takes him to understand that, his brain sticking on _you’ll have to stay_ rather than absorbing the question that follows it. Still, it makes it through eventually, and the idea of taking a hot shower is suddenly a very appealing one, particularly since he’s seen Steve’s bathroom – hell, he’s part of the team that helped fit it – and the chances of him ever being invited to use another shower that nice are pretty much nil.

“A shower would be great, thanks,” he says.

“Great,” Steve answers brightly. He leaves the empty bag on the kitchen table, then leads Bucky upstairs. He pauses at the linen closet to retrieve a towel, passing it to Bucky before proceeding to the master bedroom and attached en-suite bathroom. “Take your time,” he says. “And you can use any of the products you want. If you put your wet things outside the door I’ll stick them in the washer for you, and I’ll leave you something to wear out here too”

“Thanks,” Bucky says again, then closes the bathroom door between them. He turns the shower on first, stripping out of his sopping wet clothes while the water heats up, cracking the door just far enough to fit them through the gap, then locks the bathroom door and steps into the shower.

The temperature is hot enough to sting his skin back to life, the water pressure is exquisite, and the heated floor tiles are quite possibly the best thing Bucky has ever stood on. He’s always been proud of his workmanship, but this is the first time he’s had the opportunity to really experience the fruits of his labour for himself, and Bucky’s fairly sure this shower is worth almost getting hypothermia.

Still, he can’t actually live in there, however good an idea that seems right now, so Bucky makes use of Steve’s shampoo and shower gel. There’s no conditioner, so brushing the tangles out of his hair is going to be a bitch, but it’s so good to be warm again that Bucky’s hardly about to complain.

He shuts off the water, then dries off, wrapping the towel around his waist before cracking the door open, checking the coast is clear; sure, Steve seems happy to put Bucky up in his home for the night, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to welcome seeing Bucky parading around the place in the buff. The room is empty, though, and there’s a pile of clothes on the floor outside the door just like Steve promised.

Bucky brings them into the bathroom before looking through what Steve left for him: sweatpants, a t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, boxers and the fluffiest pair of socks Bucky has ever seen. As iffy as he feels about wearing another man’s underwear, it’s a lot better than going commando in borrowed pants, so Bucky puts on everything he’s been given, scrubs at his hair with the towel again, then hangs it up on the hook on the back of the door and makes his way back downstairs.

The living room door is open, and Bucky glances in to see a fire blazing away merrily in the grate, but since there’s no sign of Steve in there, he carries on down the hall to the kitchen.

“Feeling better?” Steve asks, when Bucky pushes open the door.

“Feeling _warmer_ , definitely,” Bucky answers. “I’m damn glad you came home when you did. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Steve says lightly, as though having to rescue a guy from his roof is an everyday occasion, not something Bucky ought to be remotely grateful for. “I’ve made mac and cheese for dinner, I hope that’s okay?”

“Steve, you’re letting me stay in your house, you really don’t have to try to please me. Besides, any food I don’t have to cook for myself is absolutely fine with me,” he agrees, then allows Steve to direct him to retrieve plates and cutlery.

Before long, the food is plated up and they’re sat in the living room in front of the fire. The TV is on quietly in the background, but neither of them are paying it any attention, too busy conversing instead.

Steve talks about his art and the mural he’s been commissioned to paint that’s the reason he’s been out of the house while Bucky and his team have been working there. Amazingly, he manages to make the conversation interesting enough that Bucky – whose artistic talents run to identifying Van Gogh’s _Sunflowers_ and not a whole lot else – doesn’t find himself reduced to making impressed sounding noises and smiling blandly, instead managing to ask questions that Steve answers in a way that suggests he doesn't find them completely inane.

In turn, Bucky takes the opportunity to engage in a long, angry rant about his shitty new coworkers and the circumstances that lead to him being stuck on the roof. Steve is sympathetic, incredulous and outraged, coming up with the most imaginative list of names Bucky has ever heard, as well as a list of plans for revenge that are as entertaining as they are impractical.

“Fine,” Steve says, when Bucky has rejected his suggestion of switching all Brock’s tools with chocolate ones (fucker would only eat them, then steal Bucky’s stuff to replace them). “But you should report them, at the very least.”

“Yeah, no,” Bucky tells him. “Looking like you do, I’m pretty sure you’ve never had to try it, but snitching on bullies never helps.”

Steve’s blush is equal parts unexpected and just plain adorable, like somehow the fact that he’s six-feet-whatever of human perfection has somehow passed him by. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to his abashedness other than by melting a little bit internally and externally pretending it isn’t happening.

“Besides,” he says, sort of impressed by the evenness of his voice. “I don’t think they knew the weather was going to do this.”

Steve’s cheeks are still tinged slightly pink, but he doesn’t let that keep him from arguing. “This storm’s been forecasted all week, Buck. They knew.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Bucky agrees, since the weather was looking pretty inclement when the others fucked off and left him up there, even if they hadn’t heard the weather reports. Still, he’s not exactly sure how best to explain the shitty situation where his small family of loveable weirdo coworkers have been assimilated into a much bigger organisation and that the guy he now works for won’t hear a word said against the dicks who tried to freeze Bucky to death. Anything he can think of just sounds like he’s whinging about his job, and God knows Bucky has been on enough shitty dates to know how big a turn off bitching about your work is.

Not that this is a date, however much Bucky might be enjoying getting to know Steve. No, this is just a completely professional relationship between customer and contractor, albeit one where the former has rescued the latter from from freezing to death. It’s not anything beyond convenience and kindness, Steve being a good guy, and Bucky needs to remember that.

(It’d be so much easier if Steve wasn’t looking at him so intently, though.)

The fire is burning low by this point, and Bucky’s been suppressing his yawns for a good twenty minutes, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready for the evening to end. It’d be fine if Steve was handsome but terrible company, if he was this picture perfect but boring or offensive or arrogant. Bucky would be able to admire Steve while completely tuning out his words, and he wouldn’t be any more enticed by him than he would be by a photograph. He could look and not care, and he would be perfectly happy to turn in for the night as soon as possible, rather than wanting to stay up talking until he falls asleep mid sentence.

Well. Talking might not be the entirety of what Bucky wants to stay up doing with Steve.

Steve’s midway through a story about a running buddy of his who got dive bombed by pigeons the last time they were out, and it’s entertaining, there’s no arguing that, but Bucky is sadly losing the battle against his exhaustion. His yawns are now too frequent to hold back, and Steve notices immediately, casting a not so surreptitious glance at his watch before cutting himself off mid-sentence.

“God, Buck,” he says, his hand on Bucky’s arm, thumb brushing back and forth. It’s not a conscious action, Bucky doesn’t think, but it’s soft and repetitive and Bucky doesn’t want him to stop. “I didn’t realise it was so late. You must be exhausted.”

Bucky shakes his head, though his emphatic denial is ruined by the very large yawn that comes out a second later. It’s so obvious that Bucky would feel like a whiny toddler if he tried to continue arguing it ( _but I’m not sleepy, momma_ ), so he changes the head shake into a reluctant nod. “Yeah, kind of,” he agrees. “Sorry.”

Steve dismisses his apology, entirely unconcerned by Bucky’s poor manners, and stands up, the place he was touching Bucky’s arm suddenly cold.

“C’mon,” Steve says lightly, offering Bucky his hand for the second time tonight, this time to help him up rather than help him down. Just like before, Bucky can’t find it in himself to resist, wanting the contact, the warmth of Steve’s skin against his, just a fraction of the strength Steve displayed when he caught Bucky earlier.

Also just like before, Bucky can’t make himself let go right away, and since Steve doesn’t seem at all inclined to let go either, they wind up walking hand in hand through the house, ending up at the door to the guest room with their hands still joined.

“Okay,” Steve says, not letting go. “The sheets are clean, your clothes are in the dryer so you’ll have them back in the morning, and I’ll give you a ride wherever you need to go as soon as the river drops enough, okay?”

Bucky smiles at him, feeling daft and dopey and, just for a moment, he thinks about leaning in. He thinks about Steve’s lips against his own, Steve’s breath on his skin, those big strong hands touching him everywhere, holding him up like before, and how much better it would be without all those wet clothes between them. He thinks about suggesting he doesn’t stay in the guest room, or maybe that both of them do.

He thinks about it. He’s only human after all, and Steve is tall and gorgeous and interesting and decent, just so goddamn all around _nice_. Bucky would have to be made of stone to not even consider it.

He thinks about it, lets himself linger in a momentary daydream where he offers all that and Steve takes him up on it, and then he takes a step back, letting go of Steve’s hand. Steve’s a good guy, and the last thing he needs is Bucky coming on to him because he misinterprets his basic human decency as something more than that.

“Thank you,” he says, opening the door. “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, Bucky,” Steve answers. “Sweet dreams.”


	2. Chapter 2

Steve isn’t proud of himself, but he’s definitely delaying giving Bucky a ride home. It doesn’t matter how many pancakes he makes them, how many times he plays the _just another episode_ card because Bucky seems to be enjoying it, how long he drags out the conversation they’re having. The fact is, Bucky has a job to go to and a home of his own, and Steve is being a selfish bastard by keeping him here. 

At least he didn’t make a move on him last night. He thinks maybe Bucky is interested, but he’s not certain, and if there was even the slightest chance Bucky might have misinterpreted Steve propositioning him as Steve suggesting Bucky _owed_ him something in exchange for his hospitality… Steve can’t take that chance, not with anyone, however much he likes them. 

Not that displaying basic human decency is something Steve should be congratulating himself on, particularly since he’s managing the absolute bare minimum of that. 

It’s almost eleven when he forces himself to stand up and step over the very low bar he’s set himself. “The river should have dropped by now,” he explains reluctantly, when Bucky sends a questioning look in his direction. “If you’re ready to head into town, I mean.” 

He tells himself he’s imagining the reluctant expression that flickers across Bucky’s face, refusing to consider the possibility that Bucky might want to stay here every bit as much as Steve wants him to stay. He can’t get his hopes up, can’t cross that line when he’s still worried Bucky might feel beholden to him. 

“Right,” Bucky agrees, and he _does_ sound hesitant, Steve’s almost certain of it. But Bucky is also standing up, heading into the hallway to jam his feet into his scruffy work boots, and the fact that he's getting ready to leave says more than any suggestion of reluctance Steve is trying to find. 

“Okay,” he says to the empty room, turning off the TV before following Bucky into the hall. Their coats and shoes spent the night in front of the fireplace, so they’re dry enough to put on, and it’s a matter of minutes before they’re in the truck, enduring a silence that seems horribly uncomfortable after how easily they’ve interacted so far. 

Bucky is a decent navigator, warning Steve about the direction they’re going in enough time for him to actually follow his instructions, but Steve’s _it’s this turn, right?_ in answer to Bucky’s _you want to turn just up here_ doesn’t exactly count as conversation. 

Eventually, they pull onto Bucky’s driveway, and Steve turns the truck off, the silence now even more uncomfortable without the sound of tyres on the pavement and the rumble of the too-loud engine. 

“Right,” Bucky says after half a minute, unfastening his seatbelt. “Thanks again for the rescue, and for putting me up for the night. I owe you one.” 

“You don’t owe me anything, Bucky,” Steve replies, too earnest by far. 

“Really do, pal,” Bucky tells him, hesitating a moment longer before opening the door and hopping out. 

Steve doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t, but the question pops out before he can hold it back. “Can I call you sometime?” 

Bucky smiles faintly back at him. “You’ve got the company number, Steve. Customer like you, I’m sure they’ll bump you to the top of the waiting list.” 

Steve doesn't _think_ he actually winces, but it’s only because he puts a lot of effort into not doing so. He’s had plenty of experience with rejection over the years, plenty of time to get good at hiding his feelings when it happens, and this is okay. It’s good, even: better that Bucky turn him down flat than accept out of obligation rather than interest. 

“Right,” he manages after a moment. “Yeah. Thanks, Bucky.” 

“Thank _you_ , Steve,” Bucky says, and then the truck door closes with a familiar thunk. 

_Idiot_ , Steve thinks, thudding his forehead against his hands where they curl around the top of the steering wheel. _You’re a goddamn idiot, Steve Rogers_. Why he let himself believe Bucky might be interested, he has no idea. 

It’s just- Steve is lonely. 

That’s not to say he doesn’t have friends, because he does. Maybe not a lot of them, but the ones he has are so close they might as well be family, and he wouldn’t change them for anything. He’s welcome at their homes any time he likes, just has to drop Sam a text if he wants a running buddy, give Peggy and Danny a call if he doesn't want to eat alone in the evening, can offer to babysit Morgan any night of the year apart from her birthday and Christmas and Tony and Pepper won’t even hesitate before accepting. 

He’s not alone, he knows that, but that doesn’t keep him from being lonely, and the last day, with Bucky in his home, was the most connected he’s felt to another human being in a very long time. 

Yeah, Steve read far too much into things. 

He’s still silently cursing himself when there’s a soft tapping on the window next to him. Steve startles upright, his left arm slipping from the steering wheel straight on to the horn, so by the time he looks out the window Bucky looks every bit as alarmed as Steve feels. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, as soon as he’s got the window open far enough for Bucky to hear him. 

Bucky rests his forearms on the windowsill, leaning down until he’s at eye level with Steve. 

“You were asking for my number, weren’t you?” he says, though his tone suggests he’s already certain about the answer. 

It's only now that it occurs to Steve that, rather than finding a very polite way to reject him, Bucky hadn't actually understood Steve was asking him out. He tries to tell himself that it's not actually worse, because Bucky surely wouldn't have come back just to make sure Steve knew he wasn't interested, but he isn't doing a good job of it, and he's absolutely certain his face is an alarming shade of red as he says, “Well, yeah, but you don’t have to give me it.” 

Bucky grins, looking more cheerful than he has since Steve suggested the river was low enough to give him a ride home. He leans in through the window, suddenly so close, and then he's kissing Steve, his lips a brief and gentle pressure against Steve's own. 

“Oh,” Steve murmurs, as Bucky pulls back. 

“Yeah,” Bucky answers, his smile soft, flattered, and holds out his hand. “You can definitely call me.” 

Steve blinks, licks his lips, and tries very hard to get his brain into gear. “What?” 

Bucky laughs softly, and says, “Your phone, doofus. Can’t call if you don’t have my number.” 

“Oh,” Steve replies, feeling awkward and, as Bucky said, more than a little like a doofus. Though, in his defence, the kiss has kind of thrown him off his already non-existent game. “Right.” 

He unlocks his phone, then passes it out the window to Bucky. There's a moment of anxious uncertainty, the same as he always feels when his phone is in the hands of another person, and then Bucky hands it back to him. 

“Call me,” he says, tapping his finger against the screen, then swoops in and kisses Steve again, still gentle, still brief, but with perhaps a hint of more this time, like he's trying to ensure Steve is definitely going to call. Which was never in question, not for a moment, but if Bucky wants the reassurance… 

“I will,” Steve promises. “Absolutely.” 

“Right,” Bucky says, straightening up and tapping his palms against the windowsill. “Looking forward to it.” 

He turns around before Steve can reply, heading back towards his house, but Steve has his phone in his hand and Bucky’s number in his phone. He doesn't have to reply aloud. 

_Me too_ , he texts, watching as Bucky pauses to dig his phone out of his pocket, then grins at Steve over his shoulder. 

Steve gives him a wave, watching Bucky walk away for a moment longer before he sticks the truck in reverse and backs out of Bucky’s driveway. 

Yeah. He's definitely going to call.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this idea but thought _hey, if I was writing this, I would have done…_ you are in luck! I’ll be participating in the Stucky remix fest, so you may well have a chance to tell this story your way. Sign ups open on 10th January, and all other info can be found [here on tumblr](https://stuckyremix.tumblr.com/).


End file.
